


Hope Is A Thing With Feathers

by UnicornFlowers



Category: Haikyuu!!, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Everyone Is Gay, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Haikyuu boys as heroes uwu, Love Confessions, M/M, Quirks, So many emotions, like so many
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28744530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnicornFlowers/pseuds/UnicornFlowers
Summary: “Hope is a thing with feathersThat perches in the soulAnd sings the tune without the wordsAnd never stops - at all -“———“I’m sorry, I’m afraid Keiji can no longer attend Fukanigawa.”Two schools. He’s been expelled from two schools in the past two years. Not for any behavioral issues or problems with grades. Because...“He can’t control it!”“Exactly. He can’t control it.”———The Haikyuu + BNHA crossover that no one asked for but someone will - hopefully - enjoy?Includes: Bokuaka, Sakuatsu, Iwaoi, Kagehina, Kuroken, Daisuga, Sunaosa, Kiribaku. And likely more.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 33
Kudos: 85





	1. touch

_“I’m sorry, I’m afraid Keiji can no longer attend Fukanigawa.”_

_Keiji sits at principal Kawanaishi’s desk, mother to his right, father on his left, and resists the urge to kick his feet with the monotony. Instead, his heels stay planted where they sit in front of him as he stares at his laces._

_They took his uniform. He’s left with beat-up pink sneakers, a remnant from his childhood._

_“But it was an accident,” his mother pleads._

_Two schools. He’s been expelled from two schools in the past two years. Not for any behavioral issues or problems with grades. Because..._

_“He can’t control it!”_

_“Exactly. He can’t control it. He’s a danger to both himself and other students,” Kawanishi says, remorse etched into the wrinkles that pull sagging skin down._

_Principle Kawanishi is only forty-five. The wrinkles aren’t from age. They must be Keiji’s fault. Or kids like him. Keiji decides then that he won’t become a middle school principal when he grows up._

_That was never the plan anyway._

_He’s going to be a hero. A damn good one at that._

_When they_ finally _walk out the front doors of Fukanigawa Secondary School, Keiji’s father breathes in his disappointed sigh._

_“We’ll have to try out Kurogani next.”_

_His father is not a man to dwell on the past. He looks forward with tried gray eyes that are just that: gray. Not silver. Not argent. Just gray._

_“They shouldn’t be allowed to do this to him,” Keiji briefly regards his mother, shaking with her anger - or maybe he sadness. Keiji can never tell with her. Sometimes they are one in the same. “This isn’t right. He’s just a child. He shouldn’t be....be_ discriminated against _.”_

_“They’re not discriminating against him, Fuka. They’re making a logical decision,” Keiji looks at the flowers printed in the ink of a sharpie on the tips of his shoes. He used to have a bad habit of doodling when he got anxious. “We just have to find another school.”_

_“They are discriminating against him! Because of his quirk!” His mother nearly yells to the late autumn sunset. “Ichiro, don’t you see what’s happening here? Lots of kids have dangerous quirks. They’re singling him out because he’s_ different _!”_

_Keiji tries not to show how he bristles. So his own mother sees it too then. That’s...informational._

_“Fuka, you’re upsetting him.”_

_“He should be upset! You should be upset! But you’re just standing there like a damn statue!” Between them, his mother has the temper. His father keeps the patience on lockdown._

_“I’m doing what’s best for our son.”_

_“Our son deserves to have people not look at him like he’s a monster,” Keiji could say he doesn’t care about that part. But he would be lying. And his mother would see right through it anyhow._

_“We can’t control how people look at him,” the hard edges of his father’s face soften. They turn pliable. Maybe he could be persuaded to smile if Keiji tried hard enough. He won’t. “All we can do is love him.”_

_Keiji doesn’t feel like he should be here. Feels out of place in this conversation, a third wheel as the subject._

_“Keiji,” his mother’s eyes are silvery steel, a gunmetal color that Keiji finds pleasing. He meets them. “We love you. You know that, right?”_

_He does._

_“Yes.”_

_They still don’t touch him._

_They don’t hold his hand as they cross the street. “Careful here, Keiji,” seems to suffice. He follows their amorphous instructions dutifully. He matches their steps to perfection._

_—_

_Kaori is very pretty._

_She has soft eyes the color of silk and hair of a flaxen hue. Her lips are glossed up, presumably for Keiji, though he thinks she’d look just as beautiful without it._

_Her school books sit in her lap, ready to be studied when she gets home. The wind laps and licks at her hair, blowing it in every direction. It’s chaotically beautiful. Keiji grows mesmerized watching it._

_“I like you, Keiji,” she tucks a few strands of golden hair behind her ear only for them to once again be claimed by the breeze._

_In the end, the effort was pointless._

_He might tell her he likes her too. He might if she wasn’t leaning into him, softly, slowly, with all the grace of a ballet dancer perched on point. The way her hands stay folded neatly in her lap doesn’t escape Keiji._

_He leans in anyway, copying her motion with lips parted, unable to look away from the scene in front of him as her eyes flutter closed, mouth open and waiting._

_Without thinking he reaches up, the tickle he feels is ever-present around her arises in his chest once again, infecting his lungs and his rib cage, spreading to his heart that, for the first time, feels like it has the potential to be full._

_It doesn’t quite get there._

_“A-Actually, can you not touch me?”_

_Kaori’s voice is kind and soft. Keiji’s eyes fly open wide and alert. His heart beats too loudly in his chest for an entirely different reason._ Oh, _his only thought._

_Keiji snaps his hand shut, so tight that blunt nails dig into the meat of his palm as he sets it back on his lap. It was always coming. He would like to think he was waiting for it, ready for it, even._

_He wasn’t._

_He leans back, turning away from her._

_“I-I didn’t mean...Keiji-“ she starts, doesn’t finish._

_He stands, the rock in his chest settling into a new position that he hurts more than the first with its weight._

_“Keiji-“_

_“It’s okay,” he assures flatly, a nod sufficing as his confirmation. He loops the strap of his school bag over his shoulder._

_“I’m sorry. Please don’t...” he waits for her to finish her sentence, but she never does._

_“I’ll walk,” he decides, more to himself than her. He’ll walk. It’s not that far. Only half an hour if he doesn’t make any extra stops._

_Kaori ebbs guilt, eyes wide and teary. If she said the words right now, Keiji could be convinced she’s not afraid of him._

_She doesn’t say anything._

_“At least let me walk you-“_

_“No, I’ll be okay,” he says with finality. “Thank you.”_

_He sighs as he walks under a curtain of cherry blossom trees. In the end, it was a pointless effort._

—

Their teacher is an odd one. Certainly not like any he’s had before. Grumpy, is how Keiji would describe him.

He turns the baseball over in his hand, tapping his index finger to the saffron red stitches. This isn’t quite like any exercise he’s done before.

What will him throwing a baseball actually tell Bakugou-Sensei?

“Any fuckin’ day now Akaashi,” Keiji wrinkles his nose - is he supposed to be cursing in front of them?

Keiji breathes in a sigh that smells like green grass, fresh air, and the dust of training ground Beta behind the school.

With one hand, he grips the baseball, allowing his arm to drop to his side. If he Taps the ball right, he can give it a push to make it go farther - not that he even knows the point of this. But Bakugou-Sensei told him to throw it as far as he can by any means necessary as long as he doesn’t step outside the white circle.

He supposes that means quirks are allowed too, right?

“Hurry up’r I’ll expel you,” Bakugou-Sensei growls behind him. Keiji studies the fearful expressions of his classmates with a lackluster sigh. A threat like that tends to stop working when you’ve been expelled from a grand total of five middle schools.

Honestly, he’s surprised he even got into U.A with his track record.

“Okay.”

Keiji draws his arm back and throws with the entirety of his strength, Tapping the ball with his index finger one and a half seconds (roughly) before it leaves his palm.

He’s good at math. Not good enough to have numbers and figures swirling in a halo around his head like in movies, but good enough to know that at the angle he’s throwing, the ball will reach its peak when it hits exactly in the middle of that cloud that looks like a perfect oval.

It shouldn’t take more than two seconds to get there, which means he should add his extra momentum before two seconds is up.

It works. Ish.

The Tap works as expected, but Keiji’s arm isn’t something special to begin with. Beyond the lean muscle mass he’s gathered over the years, he doesn’t have any sort of special strength to speak of. That’s the first reason for the Ish.

The second is that the ball explodes mid-air. Oops. Sometimes he forgets that objects are not impermeable to his quirk.

He’s used to it. It was much more of a problem when he was younger and had less control over himself. Bakugou-Sensei produces a low growl that emirates from his chest rather than his throat.

“Well, Akaashi, right? That would’ve been great if the goal was to _destroy school property,”_ Keiji bristles. He’s used to the chastising, but a long-buried stubborn part of him protests.

He closes his eyes, re-buries the stubbornness, and fixes his expression to neutrality.

“Sorry,” he says softly. Timidity is his tool of choice. Most often it is. He learned a long time ago that there’s no point in resisting.

Bakugou-Sensei ignores his apology - for the better. It was half-hearted anyway.

“Blonde Miya, you’re next!”

Keiji clears the scene and takes his rightful place at the back of the class as per usual, watching as a boy with flaxen hair and a smile that could have girls dropping like flies steps up to the circle.

Breathing is hard but slow, each one in successively heavier as shame sets in. He can feel eyes on him. Kids he doesn’t even know yet already deciding how they’re going to view him. He’s used to it. Used to the water balloon expanding in his chest.

It doesn’t make the feeling any less achy.

The blond catches the ball tossed to him with ease, waiting less than seconds before he’s launching the ball into the air. A trail of frost follows the ball as it soars higher and farther than Keiji’s does.

Embarrassment burns in his chest. He hides it behind the pretty marble mask of his lips pressed into a flat line, eyes emotionless.

Upstaged. He always is. People don’t understand. He gave up being angry about it a while ago. He’s upstaged because there’s a fine line between amazing and dangerous. The difference between warming your hands by the fire and reaching out touch it.

Bakugou-Sensei studies the blonde who’s clearly very proud of himself with an expression that looks like ‘grudgingly impressed’. It drops at the cocksure smile the kid equips.

“Don’t get cocky Miya. Next.”

The blond slumps, dissatisfied, but retakes his place in the crowd of kids. Nineteen. Akaashi counted them as they entered the classroom earlier that morning.

Blond Miya settles next to him, arms folded, lips twisted in a petulant pout. They don’t talk or even look at each other. This is the place for people soaking in their shame. It’s okay. There’s space enough for the both of them.

“Other Miya. You’re up.”

—

He’s not expelled, as it turns out. None of them are. In fact, if Keiji had to guess, it was all just a ruse to get them to work harder.

Bakugou-Sensei’s justification for putting nineteen kids through the mind-blogging panic of possibly being expelled on their first day was, _“I dunno, my teacher did it when I was your age, so I thought I’d try it out.”_ So he’s not expelled. Though he did rank pretty mediocre so that suggests Bakugou-Sensei doesn’t seem to have a very high opinion of him.

Keiji sighs through his nose as he drops his small backpack of belongings on the floor of his dorm room. A girl named Yachi had gushed to him about how they didn’t always have dorm rooms.

_“They only invested in them when the class A years ago kept getting attacked by villains! Did you know that’s the same class Bakugou-Sensei was a part of? This is gonna be so cool!”_

Keiji has never been someone people tend to talk to. The company was nice, the fact that she even approached him knowing how much damage he could supposedly inflict just by touching her. Yachi seemed undeterred.

Keiji supposes it’s because he doesn’t talk much. It’s understandable that she mistook his silence for acceptance. Not that he minds.

He didn’t get his own bed from home moved, so he flops face-first onto the simple mattress and sheets provided by the school. They feel nice against his face.

And he’s alone, completely, totally alone. Which should be nice after the chaos of a first day, but feels more like an extension of the norm.

Alone. He’s always alone. Even with his parents, he’s alone. In sixteen years, they haven’t touched him once.

He supposes it’s only natural. Why touch something dangerous?

Why put your hand to the open flame and willingly allow yourself to be burned?

—

**_Landmine:_ **

**_Touching a person or thing (called ‘Tapping’) places an invisible landmine that can be detonated when the user of this quirk completes the circuit by touching their fingers together. Up to ten can be placed._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey luvs! i had this idea a while ago and FINALLY decided to actually write it! 
> 
> i know crossovers are a tricky business so there might be a lot of canon divergence (although i suppose that’s to be expected lol). however, i hope you’ll stick around~! 
> 
> important notes:  
> \- update schedule will vary but i’ll try to update relatively frequently  
> \- tags will change a lot as i add and subtract things from the story  
> \- it may move slowly at the beginning for ✨character development✨ ùwú 
> 
> okay, that’s all! thanks for reading and have a lovely day/night~!


	2. touch - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not in any romantic way where he knocks Keiji's books from his hands and frantically apologizes before realizing he's stunningly beautiful. No. In the way where, in an attempt to avoid having to make conversation, Keiji inadvertently stumbles into the most talkative second-year U.A has to offer.“

An elbow to the back is a sufficient wake-up call - this time, he's not the one hurting. 

Keiji is used to being the one who hurts - others, himself, even unintentionally. He's not used to being the vulnerable one, the one people aren't scared of, the prey. 

Exhilarating, that's what it is. Not to be feared. What people don't understand is that it doesn't make you feel powerful to go through life as a monster.

_Sakusa_ , Keiji is pretty sure that's his name. He takes the prize for cold and detached, even more so than Keiji and that's saying something. He fights like he looks, like he sounds, which is uninvested, uninterested as if Keiji is but a blip on the map for him. He might just be that, in reality. 

For all his intelligence, for every test he's gotten an A++ on, Keiji is outclassed. 

In the time it takes the shutter of a camera to click, Sakusa is gone from behind him and standing in all his six-foot-four imposing- as- all- hell glory, expression twisted into disinterest as if he couldn't be more bored with the situation. 

Keiji wishes boredom was a luxury he could spare. Grades only get you so far without control over your body and mind. 

With an absence of any actual knowledge about Sakusa's quirk, Keiji is a lost cause. He didn't use it during any of the fitness exams Bakugou-sensei forced them to perform and he doesn't seem like the kind of guy for conversation so-

He's gone again with the literal blink of an eye - one second he's there, the next he never existed in the first place. 

Sharp pain hits Keiji seconds after confusion sets in, and despite all his many years of middle school anatomy, he can't tell for the life of him which part of him is hurting (though he's pretty sure it's somewhere near his spine). 

"Are you going to fight back at all?" Annoyance laces a deep, rumbling timber that rides on the waves of thunder. 

Keiji's never taken kindly to the prodding and teasing of others, but he senses no jest in Sakusa's words. Just vague annoyance, a genuine question - are you really this weak? 

Maybe he is. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea for Atsumu and him to split up.

"I'll get that blonde girl with the light quirk thingy, an' ya go fer Mr. Grumpy. We'll reconvene back here." 

"I don't think that's the best strategy-" 

He had gone ignored, his partner running off and giving him no chance to get a word in edgewise before disappearing through skillfully broken buildings. 

A sigh had escaped his lips, one of resignation.

Keiji is almost one hundred percent sure Atsumu dumped him on Sakusa because he doesn't trust the kid who accidentally blew up school property to handle himself in a fight against a girl who broke the parameters for pure strength on the first day. But he's starting to sense that Atsumu has the wrong idea about "Mr. Grumpy.". 

He whips around, but Sakusa is gone. The next hit is to his head, and he momentarily wonders why his opponent hadn't gone for the skull in the first place, knocked him out cold. 

"Are you going to keep playing with me?" Keiji grits out when he turns around and Sakusa finally (finally) stays put. 

"Fair point," Sakusa says evenly. "You have my apologies. Why don't we start over and do this for real?" 

For real is great. It would be even better if he actually knew what Sakusa could do (other than somehow be everywhere at once) but for now he takes the offer with a respectful nod of his head. 

"Okay." 

Keiji wastes no time in surrounding himself in a ring of smoke, sending fissures through the already cracked ground of the disaster zone set. It'll be entirely ineffective as Sakusa is at least six or seven feet away from him, but he can't figure out what Sakusa's abilities are if he doesn't actually do anything. 

The smoke takes eight seconds to settle exactly, Keiji counts them on his fingers. And in that time there is nothing, not even a whisper of Sakusa Kiyoomi who seems to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Just dead silence. 

1...2...3...4...5...6...7....8-

Then a stabbing pain behind his knee that has him collapsing staggering forward and hitting the ground with a hiss of pain as sharp gravel digs against his skin.

Just as he'd suspected. 

Touching all ten fingers to the dust-laden ground, Keiji forms his fingerprints in dry dirt before somersaulting forward. The ground behind him explodes in a virtual tornado of sand and dust, but he bites his tongue to hold back a cough that threatens to echo as his man-made hurricane envelops dark curls and twin moles. 

Then he runs - sprints more accurately - into the cloud of sand that flurries up around his opponent, latches on at the first touch of flesh beneath his fingers. Sharp shoulder blades digging against his chest help orient him in space, his fingers find the vulnerable skin of a throat and yank back - admittedly a brutish, unsophisticated technique, but if this is supposedly a simulation of a real-world fight, then he should spare no pleasantries. 

A horrible wheezing sound escapes Sakusa and Keiji wrinkles his nose at the bruises he must be leaving, but then blunt nails claw at his knuckles and his appetite for victory is rekindled. 

Encased in dust, both boys cough into unclean air. But the discomfort doesn't last long. 

Before Keiji's brain can keep up with what's happening around him, he's gasping in clean air, a short-lived victory before both he and Sakusa alike are suddenly falling off the edge of a purposefully crumbling building. He hits the ground with a bone-shattering impact as he's forced to relinquish his grip on Mr. Grumpy, who lands some distance away from Keiji among the ragged ground torn up by manufactured turmoil. That's going to leave a mark. Or seventeen. Same difference. If he thinks it hurts now, it'll be a bitch tomorrow. 

They wheeze out of sync, limbs skewed at uncomfortable angles as they mutually decide to take a breather. 

"So you teleport," Keiji manages to get the first words. 

"Not very well when I can't see where I'm going," Sakusa chastises breathlessly. "Which is your fault, by the way."

"I was just...testing out a theory." 

He gets in another solid intake of air before it's immediately knocked back out of him - Sakusa takes his complacency as the opportunity it is, closing the gap between with a well-timed jump through spacetime and landing with his palms squarely on Keiji's shoulders. Keiji grunts to hide the wince that shudders through him.

He wouldn't deign to admit he's edging close to desperation at the severity of their skill gap, but he will readily say that his body is begging him to give up and let him be wheeled away to recovery girl. 

There's one last-ditch effort he can make before his closeted stubborn-bastard self deems this fight a lost cause. 

He hastily slaps a hand to the ground an arm's length away from them. This is going to hurt him as much as it hurts Sakusa, but he's banking on years of accidentally blowing himself to get him through it. Pulling his hands together as much as he can within the limited range of motion Sakusa's body on top of him is allowing, he detonates the invisible landmines and sends a bone-shattering shockwave through both of them. 

_I am such an idiot,_ is his first thought when a familiar ringing makes its home in his ears. And then: 

_I am SUCH an idiot,_ when he tries to stand and realizes his body feels like a skin sack full of broken bones. 

His recovery time is impressive, only thirty-six seconds before he's back on his feet (barely). but Itit feels like eons of flopping around in pain before he's haphazardly stumbling over to Sakusa who's still holding his ears.Keiji wants to tell him not to try because he knows from experience that the ringing won’t subside for a few hours yet, but his mind is basically mush and words are an endangered commodity. 

With the full force of his weight and gravity combined, he practically falls onto Sakusa's waist, grabbing limply at his wrists still bunched near his ears. It takes him three half-assed attempts, but through his delirium, Keiji manages to sloppily dislodge the standard-issue cuffs provided to him by their gracious teacher onto Sakusa's wrists. Head still buzzing, vision blurred, he falls sideways to the wrecked ground beside him, rolling so they lay side by side. 

There is no feeling of victory, only fatigue and aching pain throughout his entire body as he stares at the domed ceiling of the training area and tries to blink away the haziness of his vision to no avail. (Out of the many times he's almost killed himself with his own quirk, he knows not to try, that the only antidote is rest, but it means little. He still puts in the futile effort.) 

"You're a crazy bastard," Sakusa croaks out beside him. A crazy bastard in a considerable amount of pain. 

"You're the one with cuffs on." 

  
  


—

"Can anyone tell me what Akaashi did wrong?" 

This is what he gets after barely managing to limp back to the classroom with his limbs intact. 

They're reviewing each kid's performance, half today, half tomorrow. They did Atsumu's before his and, honestly, he's frustratingly adept at navigating his own quirk as well as others, his only challenge having come when Yachi countered his ice with a full-strength tornado of what she says is "holy energy". 

"He tried to test and analyze Sakusa at the same time, putting him at great risk for getting caught off-guard," Yachi Hitoka is one of those people who will make number one someday. Her sense for battle and strategy is infallible. Keiji will have to use her as a resource in the future. "He clearly had a hunch at the beginning that Sakusa-san couldn't teleport if he couldn't see and let his guard down when he realized he was wrong, giving Sakusa-San an opening." 

Keiji inhales a breath of stubbornness - he bites his tongue to tamp down his anger. She's _right._ He may have won, but it wasn't pretty and it was completely non-applicable in a real-world situation. If this was outside of the classroom, he'd be dead by now. 

He licks across his teeth, a nervous-tick. Bounces his foot in-time with a soundless beat.

"Yes," Bakugou-sensei points at her, something that could almost resemble a not-scowl pulling at his lips. "And?" 

"An' he blew himself up," okay, that was one of the Miya twins. It better not have been Atsumu. 

Keiji doesn't bother to look, knowing he'll probably be dissatisfied with his answer. Plus, getting ridiculed is a natural state for him. He's learned not to saturate yourself with any more information than is absolutely necessary. 

"Exactly," Bakugou-sensei stresses the E. "Now, it ultimately won the exercise for him, but you _cannot_ kill yourself trying to save others unless it's a life or death situation." He growls out. "Take the classic plane example. A mother is traveling with her kid and suddenly the plane takes a nosedive. In a panic, the mother reaches for her kid's oxygen mask before her own knowing the kid is too young to know how to use it. What happens?" 

A brief pause and then: 

"The mother passes out before she can help the kid and they both die," the boy next to him pipes up. He has brown hair and a spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose, bares Keiji his most apologetic smile when he looks to the right. 

"Right. If you can't help yourself, then you shouldn't be helping others. You're a hero. You need to be alive to save people," obviously, the goal was not to blow himself into smithereens, but he keeps his mouth shut on the matter. "It worked out this time, but fuckin' trust me. It won't next time."

He picks apart a few more details of Keiji's, apparently, horrible performance - he's starting to get the sense that Bakugou-sensei doesn't like him - asks the class to clarify what exactly when wrong when they fell off the building. Keiji watches the battle he lived play out on a screen before him, internally sighing at his own mistakes but, not wanting to add more fuel to the fire they're burning him alive with, keeping them to himself. 

When Bakugou-sensei says with a voice as dissatisfied as he always is, "Alright that's all you little shits, go eat something," it's a godsend for Keiji's weary mind. 

—

He meets Bokuto Koutarou in the halls of U.A. Literally.

Not in any romantic way where he knocks Keiji's books from his hands and frantically apologizes before realizing he's stunningly beautiful. No. In the way where, in an attempt to avoid having to make conversation, Keiji inadvertently stumbles into the most talkative second-year U.A has to offer.

He figures that they were kind, offering students hero training in the morning instead of forcing them to slog through an entire day of pop-quizzes and calculous before the hard stuff even starts. But he also knows that his body feels like it's falling apart and being forced to talk to his classmates for the entirety of lunch sounds like hell. 

At the risk of being labeled a loser outcast, he chooses solitude. 

The window ledges of the windows that intersperse locker-lined halls as just wide enough that, if Keiji balances very carefully, he can sit cross-legged on them and eat his rice in peace. 

Well, it's peaceful for a full five minutes before the squeaking of shoes on tiled floors interrupts his solitude. 

The soles of shoes squeaking on hallway floors suffice as warning - Keiji doesn't make use of it because his brain registers the input to belatedly to do anything about it, but it's there.

The silence is broken, a sledgehammer taken to it by a voice so bright it could be blinding. 

“Ooh! Are you eating lunch here?” 

He looks like an owl, is what Keiji first registers about the boy before him, his hair in two-tones of silver styled straight up. Below lie sculpted cheekbones and eyes so gold they match the aureate sunshine that shimmers through U.A’s floor-to-ceiling windows. 

“Yes,” Keiji nods simply - he’s learned that, with most people, disengagement is usually a sufficient deterrent.

Apparently not so with Mr. Owl.

“But...don’t you usually do that in the cafeteria?” 

“I don’t like talking to people,” Keiji hints with the subtlety of a meteor crashing to earth. 

Mr. Owl doesn’t take the hint, or maybe blatantly ignores it. 

“You could always just sit alone,” Mr. Owl suggests like the good samaritan he is. 

This is not how he wanted his lunch to go. In fact, he didn’t want his lunch to go at all, but with the necessity of sustenance hanging over him, he’s bound in service to his body. 

“It’s too loud,” he tries again, fruitlessly. 

“Ooh, I get what you mean. My little sister doesn’t like loud places eith-“

“Bokuto stop bothering the first-year.” 

Distantly, Keiji hears the follow-up, “You mean stop _flirting_ with the first-year.” 

Meeting golden eyes is a mistake on his part, the involuntary flick lighting a fire beneath his cheeks and scrubbing his throat raw faster than sandpaper. 

Mr. Owl, Bokuto, fumbles with the accusation. 

“I-I wasn’t flirting with you- I mean...unless you wanted me- I-“ 

“Worry not, awkward child, your saving grace has arrived,” smile plastered on thick with charm, a boy who’s all sly grins and dark eyelashes loops a muscled arm around Bokuto’s shoulders. “Hi, I’m Kuroo, this is Bokuto. You might have sensed that he’s not very good at flirting, or lying, both of which he attempted-“ 

Keiji has absolutely no idea what’s going on here. 

“Bo is my best gay friend-“ 

Oh, well that makes more sense. Keiji only has romantic experience with girls (three, if we’re counting exactl). The rules for how to react in this situation is lost on him completely. 

More adept by far than Keiji at navigating this school and these relationships, the two boys turn to each other, in-fighting in the horizon. 

“Dude, you’re literally bi.” 

“Yes, and that’s why I’m your best bi friend.” 

Another student enters the chat, as if Keiji, who has the social strength of a fetus, wasn’t already overburdened enough.

“Thought I was the best bi friend,” this next boy steps his way carefully out of a modeling catalog, in such a way so as to avoid ruining perfectly-styled hair. “I’m Tooru.” 

He wiggles a hand between Bokuto and Kuroo, reaching out toward Keiji. Manners trained into him since birth absently take over as Keiji takes the offer of geniality. 

Tooru studies him as though Keiji is a being from another planet entirely, giving him a once over for good measure, maybe a sort of threat assessment. 

“Damn, you’re so sweet and innocent. Did I look like that last year?” 

Kuroo gives half-assed scoff. 

“Yeah, as if you were ever innocent-“ 

“He’s not a fuckin’ museum exhibit,” Keiji finds his knight in shining armor in the form of yet another new face. This boy seems to have invented bone structure, or at least inherited the patent. Tooru is shoved to the side to make way for callused hands prying Bokuto and Kuroo apart. “Leave the kid alone. All of you have World Studies.” 

“Iwa-Chan! We were just being nice,” Keiji mourns the loss of his alone time, setting his barely nipped at rice to the ledge next to his knee. “He’s literally sitting here eating lunch _alone_!” _By choice_ , Keiji keeps to himself.

“Yeah dumbass, that’s probably by choice,” this man, Iwa-Chan, this man is his deity. Honey-brown eyes beg with Iwa-Chan not to take Tooru away from his new favorite plaything. Their pleas go unheeded. “Which probably means he wants your whiny ass to leave him alone and get to class.” 

With a rough shove, Iwa-Chan squarely pushes Tooru forward, sending him nearly careening forward. With the grace of a ballet dancer, he catches himself, an expert in the field of brain-body coordination. A slap upside the head gets Kuroo moving, but Bokuto seems to favor his odds. 

Bokuto risks lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Cheeks stained in a water-color blush, Bokuto rubs the back of his neck with a palm, a gesture so cute it takes a an ice pick to Keiji’s heart. For a moment he, his immediate thought isn’t, _what the hell is going on,_ it’s, _he is pretty, isn’t he?_   
  


Keiji is transfixed with the image, lip caught between his teeth, so unintentionally that it he almost falls off the window sill upon realization. 

“Sorry about that...didn’t mean to ruin your lunch...uh-“

”Akaashi, Keiji,” Keiji figures after the teasing this boy just endured, he deserves at the very least a name. “And it’s okay. It was...nice talking to you.” 

That’s not exactly the full truth, but the way golden eyes grow brighter, the smile that blooms across Bokuto’s lips, seems entirely worth it. Just for the moment though. Then the equal parts whimsical and talkative second-year is bouncing away to reconvene with his friends, leaving Keiji alone with his rice. 

Just like he wanted. 

———

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo! i’m so sorry i know i totally said i would update frequently and then i waited a freaking week 😩 !!! but, it’s here now. i hope you don’t mind that it’s moving a bit slow. in the chapters to come it will also be switching pov’s bit because there are multiple characters i want to cover~ 
> 
> i’m so sorry for any spelling or grammar errors! i wrote this on my phone and i didn’t have time to proof read (also it’s my first time actually writing a fight scene so please be gentle T^T). 
> 
> just one last thing: would you prefer i consolidate all the character quirks into one reference chapter or put one or two at the end of each chapter? i’ll of course still go over each one in the story when the become relevant. (if i don’t get any answers i’ll just choose one at random 😅). 
> 
> thank you so much for all your lovely comments and for sticking with me (and reading this long-ass note lol)! have a lovely day/night~!


	3. money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know love, it hurts. It'll get better soon though," she says on a sigh. Atsumu can hear the weariness in her voice - he swears he never meant to give his mother any trouble. She never deserves it, but it finds her. "Why'dja have ta go an' pick a fight? I toldja yer first day, didn't I?"
> 
> “They called ‘Samu a monster.”

_They're going to get out of this town, Akihito. If that means I gotta strap 'em in the car an' drive 'em myself, I will."_

_Conversations muffled through walls are drowned out by the peaks and valleys of Animal Crossing music. The twins play side by side, saying nothing._

_"Yer not takin' them anywhere. They're stayin' right here an' they're workin' like their daddy raised 'em, like my daddy raised me, like his daddy raised him-"_

_"Don'tcha want them ta have a future!? This is a dead beat town! It ain't got nothin' fer them!"_

_Dead beat town equals crappy house. Crappy house equals thin walls. Thin walls equal their volume turned all the way up. Atsumu wonders if his parents can hear the twins' futile attempt at drowning out their screaming._

_"My house is better than yers," Atsumu drops his head to his brother's shoulder. Eleven years old and Osamu still lets him do this._

_"I's not a competition, ya scrub," comes Osamu's reply._

_"Don't call me a scrub, ya scrub."_

_Silence again. The blipping of Animal Crossing fills it nicely. So does the shouting from the other side of the house. Atsumu chooses to ignore the edge of angry voices in favor of the rounded out game sound effects._

_"Kori y'are not takin' my children from me."_

_There's the crash of a bottle - by now Atsumu can identify it by timber alone. He says an internal thank you for the lock on their bedroom door, however flimsy it may be._

_"Yer a useless drunk! Ya never took care of 'em a day in yer life! Don't call 'em yer children!"_

_"Woman don't speak to me that way," there's a slap, the harsh sound of a palm against skin. Atsumu doesn't know who it came from. And then:_

_"I'm not'cher woman," oh, good, it was Ma. "I'm takin' the boys an' I'm leavin'. If ya come after us, I'll set the cops on ya, ya hear?"_

_There's clattering after that, heavy footsteps padding down the hall to their mother's bedroom and a great thump when what Atsumu assumes must be the only suitcase they own is extracted from its hibernation spot on the top shelf of his parent's closet._

_Draws thunk open and slam shut with haste. All the while the twins blip around their towns and talk to their villagers. Atsumu's head stays planted on his brother's shoulder at an awkward angle. A knot is starting to form near the juncture of his shoulder. He doesn't move._

_The harsh sound of a zipper, more footsteps that threaten to shatter the foundation of their weakly-built home, and then there's a gentle knock on the twins' bedroom door. Their mother is nothing but gentle with them. Always, unceasingly so._

_In the years to come, Atsumu will learn why that's so important._

_"Hey boys," she says, voice sweet and mellow. "Can ya open yer door fer me?"_

_Atsumu looks at his twin, Osamu stares back in silent communication before scrambling on socked feet to fiddle with the rusty lock of their door. Atsumu sits, knees to his chest, chin on the divot between his kneecaps, and regards his mother with innocent eyes._

_Atsumu can see the stress lines. She's not even thirty. Twenty-seven years old and warm brown eyes are already given their matt finish. Tired, soulless, only lighting up when Osamu reaches up with arms that are in the awkward transition phase between lanky and stubby._

_Her smile melts genuinely, and Atsumu feels the need to be a part of this moment. So he slips on worn hardwood, on legs that don't quite have their coordination down, ramming like the bowling ball of a child he is into his mother and brother. Both accept him with open arms, shrouding Atsumu in familiar warmth. Protecting him as their mother places a gentle kiss to their hairlines._

_The moment ends with that. Resumes with,_

_"Okay babies, getcher games an' come with Mama, we're goin' on a little trip," this smile is not like the last. This smile is tense and drawn. This smile is made of plastic._

_"Where are we goin'?"_

_A pause. Three seconds, Atsumu counts it on his fingers behind his back._

_"Hmm, just think of it like a vacation," their mother leans on her knees, touches the tip of her index finger to Osamu's nose, then Atsumu's. "It'll be fun! We'll get ta see so many new places."_

_"Are we comin' back?" Panic widens Kori Miya's eyes. Another plastic smile replaces it._

_"Let's just see how much fun we have."_

_"What about our clothes?" This time the answer is prepared, fresh from the script._

_"We'll get new ones. Ones with...dinosaurs and flowers on them. Pajamas that'r really soft," Atsumu likes flowers, has ever since he learned roses mean love. Osamu likes dinosaurs, the t-rex specifically. The temptation is too heavy. Their mother really is laying the lies on thick. "An' we'll get cheeseburgers, an' milkshakes-"_

_And boy do those sound good to the insatiable stomach of an eleven-year-old boy._

_"What're we waitin' fer!?" Atsumu scrambles under his mother's arm into the hallway, trusting Osamu to get his PSP for him._

_Atsumu skids the length of the hallway, stopping only when he sees his father through the doorway of the kitchen. Akihito leans against the island, bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers, a bottle swinging loosely from his other hand, another broken and laying in a pool of its own froth at his feet._

_They both stop what they're doing, Atsumu halting his movements, his father dropping his hand. Regarding each other with cold eyes, they stand in mimicked positions - arms at their sides, standing up straight, every muscle tense and ready for split-second action._

_There is nothing. Or rather, nothing that resembles a father and his son. Just cold silence, contemplation, a cat and mouse game where someone has to make the first move. It's not going to be Atsumu. Which means..._

_And then his father is running, toward him, so fast, and Atsumu's never felt more scared, so he screams, piercing. He doesn't hear the sound of his mother's voice or Osamu's feet padding quickly toward him, just his own cry wringing in his ears._

_A hand is planted squarely on his chest, pushing him to the side in a frenzy of motion that sends him cascading to the ground before his brain can catch up with what's happening._

_"Boys, run!"_

_Disobedient at the best of times, the twins follow their mother's instructions to the undefined T, scrambling across splintered floors, their own father limping after them a crazed animal. The sounds of feet stomping is the only noise that fills the otherwise silent house as the boys and their mother run for the door._

_They almost make it, too. Almost but not quite._

_Osamu is the one who screams this time. Atsumu looks back with vision that blurs at the edges._

_Osamu is screaming wildly and raggedly, yanking at his own arm where their father has it in a vice grip, one foot kicking at Akihito's knee, a desperate but futile attempt to get free._

_"Kori ya fuckin' whore! Yer not takin' my children from me!" Yer not my dad._

_Atsumu's body moves before his brain does as he leaps on his own father, sinking his teeth into the vulnerable flesh of his wrist hard enough to draw blood and lots of it. Frost leaks from his palms, blackening skin where his fingers meet his father's forearm, encasing pale skin and blue veins._

_Osamu is freed from his shackles in an instant running as fast as stubby legs will carry him and dragging Atsumu with him as he stumbles toward the backlit figure of their mother in the doorway. With the taste of blood in his mouth and palms chilled from the cold, Atsumu follows on less-sure feet._

_"THE FUCKER BIT ME!" Akihito's scream is cut off by the slamming of the front door as the three of them race to their junky Sadan._

_Their mother ushers them into the back seat as she shoves their suitcase in the trunk, slamming the door behind her. She's in the front seat seconds later, giving herself only seconds to swipe her hands over her eyes before she's jumping back into action once again, tireless. Turning the key in the ignition, the care rears to life with a snarl before they're speeding off without even their mother's cursory warning to buckle their seatbelts._

_A broken wire fence and withered potted plants retreat into the distance, misty with the layer of dust that blurs the images of their back window._

_Mesmerized, Atsumu watches as figures blur to colors, his old life to shapes._

-

"Okay, ya seem like an only child. Which is lucky fer ya, 'cause brothers suck."

Atsumu slides into a seat across from a kid with a pinched expression and twin moles adorning an otherwise blank canvas of ivory skin. If Osamu hadn't refused to sit with him - _"I don't wanna be associated with ya anymore than I gotta."_ _"We have the same face, 'Samu."_ \- maybe he wouldn't have to sit with this creepy kid who's monopolized the loner vibe. But alas, his brother is a traitorous snake. 

"'Samu literally abandoned me on like, our fourth day. So now I have to sit with ya. An' honestly, yer kind givin' me creep-vibes. Can ya say somethin-"

"Do I know you?” 

Atsumu wrinkles his nose with distaste. Right, this guy. the one who teleports. 

“I mean, horribly offended thatcha don’t remember me, but moving on“ Atsumu says. He extends a hand across the table. The boy doesn't take it so he folds back neatly in his lap, undeterred. "My name is Atsumu. Miya. We’re literally in the same class. I’m the better lookin', more competent twin, if anyone asks." 

"So you're condescending and full of yourself?" Mister No-Name pre-ascribes. "Good to know." 

"Literally not what I said, but we'll breeze past that-"

"Are you going to be done here soon?" Mister No-Name scowls behind what looks to be a surgical mask, dark eyebrows furrowing with discontent. He picks at his bowl of plain rice as though he's already eaten, stabbing his chopsticks through the soft pillowy surface. 

"Uh...I will when lunch is over." 

"This is my table. You're contaminating it," Mister No-Name grits out. Atsumu raises an eyebrow, suddenly hyper-aware of the way he throws himself haphazardly over the back of the chair, how Mister No-Name keeps his posture tight and conformed. 

"Yeah, well, with an absence of anywhere else to sit, I've elected to grace ya with my presence," his table-mate looks less than happy about such a development. "Anyway, ya still haven't told me yer name." 

"You don't deserve it. Stop bothering me," chilly. 

"Luckily fer ya, I'm not easily deterred by pricks 'cause I got one fer a brother."

"Luckily for you, I can't commit murder without being expelled."

Atsumu gasps in mock offense - if he had anywhere else to sit, he most definitely would. But he's not going to sit alone because Atsumu is an aggressively social creature, so he chooses to handle the porcupine rather than leave it be. 

"Please, sweet creature, tell me yer name," he pleads mockingly. 

"Will it make you shut up?" 

"Em...fer how long?" Atsumu's never been good at shutting up. Even less so when people tell him to. 

"I'd say forever, but for the remainder of lunch will suffice." 

Atsumu sways his head back and forth - decisions, decisions, decisions. Another bite of his lunch suffices to fill his mouth, just to keep himself occupied while his mind bounces between his options, washing it down with a gulp of water. 

"Okay yer on." 

"Sakusa Kiyoomi."

"Ohhh Kiyoomi," Atsumu smirks, the name pleasant as it rolls off his tongue. "Omi-Kun."

“Yeah, didn’t you know that?”

“Obviously no’r I wouldn’t’ve asked. How am I s’posed to know everyone’s name like, immediately?” To be honest, the only person Atsumu bothered to learn the name of was Yachi, and that's just because she took an abject interest in his quirk and he's never one to turn down food for his insatiable ego. 

“By using your brain to memorize them? Do you…have one of those?” Atsumu inhales his sigh.

“Hah funny, but if yer so smart, why didn’tcha know me? Riddle me this Omi-Kun.”

To his credit, Kiyoomi doesn't make any move to slaughter Atsumu - the blond has found he tends to have that effect on people - instead closing his eyes as he sets his chopsticks down side-by-side, perfectly aligned. 

“One, don’t call me Omi, I’ll punch you in the face. Two, because I don’t give a flying fuck about you. Now can you leave me alone?”

Atsumu considers a moment. Outright saying 'no' feels like it's crossing a line, pushing the boundaries beyond what they can handle. But sitting alone with no one to talk to is about the most boring way to spend his lunch Atsumu can think of.

"Um...y'already asked that, an' I'm still here so....does that answer yer quesiton?" They study each other a moment - Atusmu takes interest in his eyes. They're so dark they suck visible light from around them, a vortex of lost colors. Atsumu wonders how long it would take him staring into them before he loses his mind. 

Momentary peace caved in by Kiyoomi's grudging voice, Atsumu climbs through the hole it leaves. 

"Why can't you just sit at literally any other table?" Atsumu rolls his eyes. 

"Because I'm not trying to be an edgy loner," that was the wrong choice of words, evidently, because Kiyoomi is suddenly standing, lunch tray in hand, his scowl still holding strong after all this time. Atsumu stands with him - he has a bad habit of letting his words go unpoliced. As you can probably imagine, it hasn't been a positive thing for him many times in his life. "I'm sorry I'm sorry OmiOmi please don't leave me!" 

"Fucking relax," Kiyoomi turns away from him, walking out of the conversation with purpose. "Lunch is over you idiot." 

Atsumu watches him leave, eyes narrowed as if he can see behind that mask. Interesting, Kiyoomi Sakusa is interesting. He may not be fun, but he's interesting, and a challenge. And if there's one thing better than fun, it's interesting. And if there's one thing Atsumu will never turn down until his dying breath, it's a challenge. 

-

_ From the corner of an eye swollen nearly shut, Osamu looks a small blur of silver standing in the doorway of their bedroom.  _

_ "Baby, ya gotta look at me if I'mma fix yer eye," his mother's face is distorted through vision stained red, but he nods, a gesture of compliance despite the way it dislodges her hand from his face. A sting echoes through his nerves, a wince following it up closely. "That's what happens when ya move while I'm trinya patchya up." She warns.  _

_ In an effort to be good, and to avoid any more pain than necessary, Atsumu sits stock still on the bar of their kitchen, bruised knuckles catching granite countertops in a vice grip. His mother dabs at his face with a rag once white, now red and brown with drying blood. Atsuu wrinkles his nose in distaste when she touches it above his singular remaining open _ _ wound.  _

_ "I know love, it hurts. It'll get better soon though," she says on a sigh. Atsumu can hear the weariness in her voice - he swears he never meant to give his mother any trouble. She never deserves it, but it finds her. "Why'dja have ta go an' pick a fight? I toldja yer first day, didn't I?" Even scolding him, she's gentle, a truth far worse than being screamed at. "Stay outta trouble."  _

_ With one good eye, he studies his mother's worn expression - tired eyes overgrown with sadness that needs trimming. But neither Atsumu nor his brother had ever been any good at gardening.  _

At least, _he thinks,_ at least she deserves an answer. 

_ "They called 'Samu a monster," he sniffs, a justification as weak as it is strong. Briefly, brown eyes that reflect his flick up to meet him in a mutual show of understanding. He wonders if she would've done the same thing, if she's about to lie and tell him he was wrong.  _

_ She doesn't say anything after that, in fact. Instead, she cleans his wounds and presses Hello Kitty bandaids over his cuts.  _

_ He doesn't complain about it. Not even when he goes to school the next day and gets made fun of for his supposed infatuation with a show made for five-year-olds. Middle schoolers overexaggerate everything. _

_ Atsumu keeps his lips sealed and his bruised fists out of trouble. He wears the pink, flower printed, Hello Kitty bandaids like the badges of honor they are as he escorts his brother to every class.  _

_ "I think they look cool," Osamu tells him from the bottom bunk at two-thirty-three in the morning that night. Thirteen years old and they still sleep in the same room.  _

_ A kid named Kokoro once called it lame. Their mother says she's proud of them. In the end, they trust the latter.  _

_ "Obviously they do," Atsumu whispers. "Ya scrub."  _

_ And then softer from the bottom bunk:  _

_ "Don't call me a scrub, ya scrub." _

_ - _

Atsumu's only on his second week of high school and he's already failing one class. When Yaoyorozu-sensei hands their tests back and his displays a crimson F marked in the gentlest fashion possible, he nearly slaps his head against the desk - it would certainly be less painful. 

Higher mathematics has never been his strong suit. 

Apparently, Akaashi Keiji, the kid who sits solemnly in front of him, a total statue on most days, does not have the same problems. Over his shoulder like the nosy bastard he is, Atsumu's eyes trace the swooshy lines of an A+, not that the expression on Akaashi's face when he turns it slightly to the right reflects a grade so immaculate. If anything, he looks disappointed. 

If an A+ is now considered a disappointing grade in Calculus, Atsumu, A) Is failing even harder than he thought, and B) Has no hope of passing this class. 

Atsumu hates seeking help - everyone knows this - but he’s starting to think he’s going to need it if calculus keeps kicking his ass like it is. Sadly, they don’t let you be a pro hero if you’re dead-shit dumb. And according to the fat F his test is basically _screaming_ at him, he’s the very definition of dead-shit dumb. 

_Ya know who isn’t though..._

In front of him, Akaashi’s dark hair ruffles with slight movements, and instead of a classmate, Atsumu sees the man who’s going to help him graduate. 

Atsumu isn’t saying he’s optimistic about the idea of asking his second-least emotional classmate for help, but the rain clouds don’t hover quite as bleak. 

Casting a sidelong glance to his brother sitting next to him, Atsumu attempts in vain to swear with his eyes that he will absolutely fucking murder Osamu if he says a single word. The message, obviously, doesn't get across. 

"Wow, yer even dumber than me," that damn stupid thing Osamu does when he’s trying to match Atsumu’s level of cockney-bastard is making its reprise. 

“Shuddup.” 

“That was witty even fer you.” 

“I shoulda eaten ya in the womb,” Atsumu hisses, a standard threat. 

“Ya also shouldn’t be failing yer first test a’ the year,” fucking brutal, that’s how his brother grew up. He used to be such a sweet kid too. Sometimes Atsumu worries it was his (admittedly poor) influence. “And yet here ya’are.” 

“Asshole.” Atsumu grits. 

“Prick.” 

Atsumu’s lips part around the final word, but he never gets it, because Akaashi stands up at that moment. Atsumu stands with him, determined to catch his saving grace before it leaves him stranded with no hope of graduating high school. 

His sudden forfeit of their undefined competition must throw Osamu off-guard, because the more subdued of the Miya’s supplies Atsumu with he a strange look. Atsumu ignores him entirely, hastily stuffing the remnant of his shame into his school bag and following behind Akaashi like a lost puppy dog. 

This kid is fast, clearly eager to escape the noise and confusion of high schoolers trying to navigate interactions with their new classmates. Atsumu doesn’t blame him, but he also needs help, desperately so.

Atsumu catches him in the hallway, just a tap to his uniformed shoulder, but Akaashi jolts away from the touch all the same - _ah, so he doesn’t like that._

Atsumu steps back like the good classmate he is, putting a healthy distance between them. Best be on Akaashi’s good side if he seeks to not be labeled an idiot for the rest of his life. 

“Hey! Sorry, I didn’t mean ta startle ya,” Atsumu makes his best attempt at geniality, palming the back of his neck. 

“No, it’s okay Atsumu-San,” Akaashi, polite as ever - not that Atsumu really knows what he’s like - nods, a simple dismissal of any accidental slights. “Do you need something?” 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” he swallows around the words he has to say. He knows how to ask for help, he’s practiced it in the mirror. But...he’s never actually done it before. Usually, he just relies on people to realize he needs it and take initiative. “I was wonderin’ if ya...” 

He winces silently at his own pause. 

“Could tutor me?” Comes out drowned in hesitance rather than the self-assured request for help it was meant to. 

Akaashi regards him with cold eyes, no recognition of a pre-existing bond to be found. Apparently, being partnered for a training exercise doesn’t translate to real friendship. Then there’s a sigh and Atsumu senses that this was probably a bad idea-

“I’m sorry Atsumu-San... I’ve never tutored any-“

Akaashi stops short as a familiar blond head bounces up to them, cheeks stained pink with the prologue to an embarrassed blush. It seems her perpetual state, fluctuating between confidently optimistic and a nervously stuttering mess. 

Her school bag is clutched in front of her like a shield, but determination rests in hazelnut eyes. 

“Akaashi-San! I- I was wondering if...Please tutor me! I have A’s in every class except this one,” Atsumu wishes he could say the same. “If I go home with a C in math I’m dead meat, my mom’s gonna kill me!” 

She’s bowing low, cropped blonde hair flopping over her face, a thin veil hiding her distress. Atsumu looks back at Akaashi, who, despite wearing a mask of polite resignation, looks three seconds away from running for the hills. 

“I’m sorry Yachi-San. But as I was just explaining to Atsumu-San, I’ve never tutored anyone before. I don’t think I could be much help to you,” Akaashi swallows, not out of remorse but anxiety. 

Yachi seems to consider a moment, eyes wide and doe-like as she stares up at Akaashi. Pleading, that’s the only way for Atsumu to describe it. 

“Please?” She says after a beat, so innocent and genuine that it would make the person who denied her a monster of the worst kind. 

Silence strung tense between the three hangs, only broken by a resigned sigh. 

“Okay. I’ll catch up with you after school,” Akaashi swallows with subtle nod. Atsumu would feel bad if his future didn’t rest on getting at least a passing grade. “Goodbye Yachi-San, Atsumu-San.” 

Then he’s gone, taking off at a brisk walk in the opposite direction of the dining hall. 

“So you need help with math too Atsumu-San?” Yachi’s voice steals his eyes from Akaashi’s retreating figure to the girl standing next to him. 

“Uh...yeah,” he admits, confesses. “All the quirk-output in the world ain’t gonna getcha good grades on a written test.” 

Yachi’s face, expressive in its joviality, twists to sympathy. But a smile replaces it quickly. She grins up at him, blindingly so. 

“At least it’s impressive out put!” 

———

_**Frostbite:** _

_**The user of this quirk has the ability to create, manipulate, and control ice. (Atsumu)** _

_**Holy:** _

_**The user of this quirk can turn their life force into divine energy and release it in short bursts. (Hitoka)** _

_**Teleport:** _

_**The user of this quirk can teleport wherever they can see. (Kiyoomi)** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! hopefully this is the start of me updating more frequently, though we’ll have to see. 
> 
> ngl it’s a little hard to keep my true romantic brain under control when it comes to developing relationships (romantic and otherwise) but we take the long route in this house. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed and i’ll try to have the next chapter out soon! 😊


	4. money - pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who're ya?" Atsumu demands, the guardian of a crumbling apartment building in the body of a fourteen-year-old boy. 
> 
> Mr. Golden Eyes regards him with interest, eyes catching on Atsumu's dyed blond hair. A smirk quirks his lips, but he doesn't let it play to fruition. 
> 
> "Me? Nobody important," he says as though Atsumu would ever accept that answer.
> 
> "Then tell us a name Unimportant-San." 
> 
> "Suna. Rintarou, if you wanna know, though I don't know why."

“Ya live in a fuckin’ mansion?” Atsumu’s never lived in luxury before. It always comes as a shock to realize that some people do it every day. "An' ya never fuckin' told us?"

Akaashi opens enormous mahogany doors for them, and this is the first thing Atsumu can seem to comment on. Akaashi sighs wearily as if he's been asked this question a hundred times before and has long since grown tired of answering it. 

"We've only known each other for a week. I didn't think it was a necessary detail regarding my character." 

They're allowed to visit home on the weekends, but Atsumu hasn't been home in a year and he doesn't intend on going back. His dorm room has everything he wants, so he doesn't have a reason to. Home holds his past in a jar, sealed airtight and certainly _not_ to be opened. 

"Yer fuckin' rich," Atsumu toes off his shoes at the door - he might push boundaries, but he has basic manners - avoiding the strong desire to go sock skating on Akaashi's perfectly polished hardwood floors. 

"My parents are rich," Akaashi corrects. 

"Same difference." 

"You have a lovely home Akaashi-San," Yachi says, taking an entirely different approach to commenting on the household as she mimics Atsumu's trained habit and slides off her light-up Sketchers. Atsumu has a feeling they'll be good friends. 

"Thank you, Yachi-San." 

Akaashi leads them to the dining room (one of many, probably, as Atsuu figures). The room is long and velvety, dark wood staining each corner that crimson red can't reach. Gold glimmers between the cracks, accenting the feet of chairs and the handles of chests and drawers that look like they're worth more than the monetary value of Atsumu's soul. _Imagine growin' up in a place like this._ His life would've been so different. 

He sets his school bag down on the table, following Yachi's lead as she tucks herself into one of the plush chairs at the end of the table, placing delicate hands atop the, frankly, enormous dining table that stretches the length of the room. The room is mismatched from the rest of the house, Atsumu notices as he peaks down the hallway Akaashi disappears into. Traditionally western decor you'd find in the palaces of European kings clashes with the modern aesthetic of the remainder of the virtual mansion.

"Would you like anything to eat or drink?" Akaashi splices through his thoughts from what Atsumu can only assume is the kitchen - he's not brave enough to venture and find out. "Actually I'll just put some tea on." He decides before they have the chance to say anything. Yachi grins as if tea sounds like the most wonderful idea. Everything to Yachi is the most wonderful idea. Atsumu appreciates that about her. 

Akaashi reenters the room as they begin to extract their textbooks from their bags. His face is as unreadable as ever - Atsumu wonders if it's an intentional cover-up or if he's genuinely feeling nothing all the time. Regardless, he's pretty. That combined with his intelligence should be enough to get him through life nicely even if he never smiles.

"Akaashi-San! Why don't I ever see you at lunch? We could study together then if the weekend is inconvenient for you," Yachi seems an expert at the innocent act, but Atsumu can read between the lines.

"The weekend is fine, Yachi-San. Thank you for your consideration," Akaashi brushes off the question masterfully - clearly he's skilled at deflection. Atsumu can't help but want to know why. 

But Yachi doesn't seem like a quitter. This time she asks more plainly, "Why don't you come to lunch then? Are you not hungry?" 

Akaashi regards both of them with eyes that either hold no emotion or really well-concealed emotion. 

“I’m not...very good at talking to people,” Akaashi confesses, though it sounds more like an excuse. 

Yachi studies him like she can’t comprehend the idea. Atsumu sympathizes - as someone who perpetually has something to say or talk about, he’s a social creature of the highest order and can’t help but need another person to yammer at. Akaashi doesn’t seem to suffer from the same ailment. 

“Well...if you’re ever in the mood to talk, me, Hinata, Kageyama-San, and Yamaguchi-San can always make room for you.” 

“Ouch, no invitation for little old insignificant me?” Atsumu mocks hurt, holding a hand to his heart. 

His sarcasm doesn’t seem to hit home with Yachi, landing somewhere on the spectrum of genuine sadness. Milk chocolate eyes widen comically large, so sparkling they could almost be considered teary. 

“No of course you’re always welcome too Atsumu-San-!” 

“I’m messin’ with ya Yacchan,” the nickname slips out easily and Yachi doesn’t react, so he thinks maybe he’s in the clear. “Honestly, there’s this guy I’ve been workin’ on. Chilly bastard. He was yer partner in the first exam?”

Yachi’s grin returns as she slaps her calc book open with a thunk. 

“Oh yeah! Kiyoomi-San isn’t that bad,” _Kiyoomi-San...first name basis? Why am I noticin’ this? Stop it she’s still talkin’-_ “-He actually seems like he could be a really nice guy if he wasn’t so scared of human contact. I honestly tried, but he’s such a loner. I don’t think he even wants to be my friend.” Yach frowns, fiddling with the staggered ends of cropped blonde hair. 

“Eh, he doesn’t wanna be anyone’s friend,” okay, maybe Atsumu has a skewed view because he’s been virtually harassing the man for the first few days of school. But it’s probably true, he’s always sitting alone, right?

“I thought you wanted me to tutor you,” Akaashi speaks up.

“Not one fer casual conversation?”

“I already told you I’m not good at talking to people. You have my apologies if I came off as rude.” 

After that, they study calculus. For real. Mainly because Yachi looks like she’s about to cry if Akaashi gets any colder and Atsumu doesn’t know how to subtly teach social skills to a guy who doesn’t seem to want to learn them. 

Between Yachi and Atsumu, they eat all of Akaashi’s fancy British biscuits and drink three pots of tea. Akaashi barely finishes one cup. He also doesn’t break nearly half as many pencils as they do during enthusiastic bouts of conversation. 

And it’s nice. To be normal. To have friends beyond a brother and a kid who’s close enough to be one. To spend time in a mansion instead of an apartment laden with water damage, even if it is under the pretext of his least favorite subject. 

It feels like the start of a lifestyle so much cleaner than the one he lived before. With defined edges and parameters instead of amorphous events, unexplained, that leaves what he thought in shambles. 

Atsumu’s packed a suitcase to a new life, dragging with him only the two most important things. 

-

_"Are you gonna keep staring or are you actually going to approach me? C'mon a guy doesn't have all day."_

_They hadn't been stalking him, but they've been living in this place for three years and neither Osamu nor Atsumu had ever seen the boy with the dusty golden eyes before. Osamu ducks back around the corner, Atsumu steps forward a little into the light. It had been a little shady that Mr. Golden Eyes had just been sitting outside an apartment, waiting._

_"Who're ya?" Atsumu demands, the guardian of a crumbling apartment building in the body of a fourteen-year-old boy._

_Mr. Golden Eyes regards him with interest, eyes catching on Atsumu's dyed blond hair. A smirk quirks his lips, but he doesn't let it play to fruition._

_"Me? Nobody important," he says as though Atsumu would ever accept that answer._

_"Then tell us a name Unimportant-San."_

_"Suna. Rintarou, if you wanna know, though I don't know why," his tone is dismissive in a way that bugs the crap out of Atsumu. When 'Suna' (if that even is his real name) gets up to swing the door to the apartment that, a week ago, had been uninhabited, Atsumu's anger only grows more potent._

_Osamu's footsteps are barely audible as he comes to stand behind Atsumu, gladly waiting in his twin's shadow for silent marching orders. Suna disappears into the apartment, door left ajar behind him. He only pokes his head back out when the twins make no move to approach - why should they? They've only just met him and he doesn't seem to be making any attempt to get on their good sides, not that anyone in this crappy building other than Ms. Josaphene across the hall ever does._

_"Geeze you guys sure do a lotta staring. You gonna come in or...?"_

_Atsumu hesitates a moment, glancing at his twin whose eyes are as wide as dinner plates, clearly interested but fearful. He's their age, right? So really what's the problem? Plus, it doesn't seem like his parents are home, otherwise, they would've yelled at him for leaving the door open. The underlying caution that Atsumu carries around with him hangs on barely by a thread as curiosity about their new neighbor takes over._

_Atsumu leads the way with firm footsteps, never one to go anywhere without toting a fair amount of undue confidence along. Osamu follows him out of obligation, though there are no quips on his tongue, which leads Atsumu's brain to believe that Osamu must be at least a little bit scared. He doesn't mention it. This once, he decides to be a good brother (he'll most definitely ask for credit regarding his not-actions later)._

_They step into the apartment which is as small and cramped as theirs with the exact same layout, just flipped a mirror image seeing as it's on the other side of the hall. The place is well-kept and clean, the only mess coming from various undergarments hanging from odd places - the edge of the coffee table, the kitchen bar, the edge of the TV stand. Atsumu wrinkles his nose at the strong smell of bleach, momentarily wondering if he's just stepped into the apartment of a teenage serial killer._

_Osamu hangs back at the door as Atsumu explores the apartment with slow, ungraceful movements - he steps on the padded cup of a bra and recoils as if he's been burned, quickly relocating himself to a less precarious area. The walls are completely blank save for a small sliver between the TV and the doorframe. A picture occupies the space, one of a small boy with golden eyes and two parents, blushing with their pride._

_It was taken a long time ago. Atsumu can tell from the way the barely-there camera flash reflects in gold irises. He looks back at Suna. Not even the sunlight makes them glitter now._

_"You want some weed?" Atsumu's caught off-guard by the question as he whirls around to find Suna holding out an ashtray filled with a deep-green substance the texture of tea leaves._

_"What?" He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "No. Do_ you _want some weed?" Best to find out if their new neighbor is a drug dealer sooner rather than later._

_"Nah." Atsumu frowns, not out of disappointment, but interest._

_"Yer a weird guy," he says as Suna flops down on the gray couch that sits along the wall opposite to the door. His posture is bad. Though Atsumu supposes he has no right to judge._

_Osamu still doesn't set foot in the apartment. Instead, he stands awkwardly in the doorway and watches them like a movie he can't take his eyes off of._

_"If not smoking weed makes me weird then I guess I'm okay with that."_

_"Okay...if ya don't smoke, then whose is it?" Atsumu wonders aloud, taking a seat next to Suna as if he's part of the natural environment after having only been in the place a grand total of one time._

_"My mom's boyfriend," he grimaces, dropping the ashtray of weed to the table with little care for how some of it spills over the edge. With a contemptuous sneer that borders on mocking, he says, "His name is Baker. He's from New Jersey."_

_"Like...in America?"_

_"No, in Russia," Suna snarks flatly. "Obviously, in America. Do you not know basic geography?"_

_Atsumu pouts. If there's one thing he likes less than being called dumb by his brother, it's being called dumb by people who haven't even given him a chance to show just how stupid he can really be._

_"Okay, Mr. I Know Everythin'. If yer so intelligent, why're ya in this shithole place?"_

_"My mom," the answer comes belated, like if he has to think about it. Bitterly, Suna stares at their reflections in the TV, body unmoving except for the slight bounce of his knee. He scratches his forehead. "Wanted a kid she didn't wanna take care of."_

_"What?" Atsumu asks dumbly - okay, now Suna can officially make fun of him._

_"My dad wanted the house, my mom wanted me. It's that simple, really."_

_There's not emotionality behind his words, but Atsumu can hear the edge he's trying to hide. The way he keeps his tone more even than is natural for a human, all in an effort to deflect attention._

_"Was yer dad rich? That why yer so snobby?"_

_"A businessman so...I guess. For him, green was the color of a full life."_

_Atsumu understands. Well, not really. He's never been rich a day in his life, but he understands the meaning behind the words, the feeling they hold._

_He doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything at all. Instead, he turns his eyes back to the TV, watching their mismatched breathing and occasionally flicking his eyes to where Osamu stands frozen and hanging onto the doorway. Suna seems in his own world, so Atsumu opts not to break him out of it, unsure of what he'd say if the conversation were to - most horribly - pick up where it left off._

_Surprisingly, it's not big bad loud Atsumu who break their new neighbor from his trance at all. In reality, it's his quiet younger brother, a boy who's standing in such a way so as to purposefully detract attention to himself._

_"Hey," Osamu looks up at him like a frightened bunny rabbit, his usual snark and sass gone. Suna looks amused, and Atsumu already senses something bad fast approaching. "Yeah, you. Why're you just standing there?"_

_When Osamu says nothing, Suna seems to take it upon himself to get something started, pushing himself to his feet with almost cat-like agility. He slinks across the room, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants until he reaches Osamu - Suna Rintarou is plainly spoken, Atsumu hasn't decided if he likes or despises that about him._

_He's tall, taller than the twins anyway, hovering a few inches above Osamu in a way that sits between threatening and demeaning. Osamu stares up at him with the most innocent eyes Atsumu's ever seen him wear, and the blond swears to a god he's never been trained to believe in that if Suna takes one step closer to his brother, he'll beat the guy up so bad kids will scream at him as he walks down the street._

_"You're quiet," Suna muses. Osamu just stares, almost in defiance._ _"Jesus, don't look so scared. I'm not gonna bite...Unless-"_

_Atsumu is on his feet in an instant, sacrificing his body as tribute as he shoves himself between Osamu and Suna. The crash of his shoulder against the door frame is unpleasant but overshadowed by his over-protective spirit._

_"Hey, leave him alone!"_

_The smile on Suna's face grows as if this is the most amusing encounter he's ever been a part of. A smirk twitches a the corner of his lips as he looks past Atsumu completely. Golden eyes catch on Osamu like he's Suna's new favorite plaything._

_"I'm fuckin' talkin' ta ya-"_

_"Relax," Suna pats him on the shoulder condescendingly. "It was just some harmless flirting."_

_"Flirting?! But..." Atsumu wrinkles his nose uncomprehendingly. "Guys don't flirt with other guys that's..." his sentence goes unfinished. The thought never occurred to him. Actually, romance with anyone beyond his locker stuffed full of cards on Valentine's day never occurred to him._

_"Uh, you do if you're gay."_

_"Yer...gay?"_

_"Yup," he pops the P. Suna looks back at him and this time, Atsumu can't help but notice, there's light in his eyes, equivalent to that of the boy's in the picture. This is different, devious, malicious. "You got a problem with that?"_

_Atsumu glares at him full force as he stands a shield between his brother in this menace._

_"Nah. Not really," he answers truthfully. Whoever Suna Rintarou chooses to lock lips with is none of his business. "But stay away from my brother."_

_-_

”Do you get off on watching me suffer?” 

“A little bit, yeah,” Atsumu admits just to provoke - because he can, because he gets a rounded sense of satisfaction from eking out every last ounce of emotion he can from his otherwise emotionless classmate. 

It kindles something akin to a fire in his chest, stoking it every with every pull of the twin moles on Kiyoomi’s forehead and every scrunch of his eyebrows. 

"Sadist."

"Tsundere."

"Can you go harass someone else?" Kiyoomi shoots him a sharp glare that should not be half as pretty as it is. Atsumu bites his lip to halt a smile where it begins to bloom. 

"Omi, I'm honestly hurt. I'm tryina be a good classmate butcha just keep pushin' me away," he's been told his sarcasm is going to get him into trouble one day, but experience is the best teacher, right? 

"I'm not a pet project for you to find amusement in. Take your assholery somewhere else." 

He's tried sarcasm, he's tried charm, maybe it's time for some good old-fashion honesty. Atsumu will be real here, he's not all that good at this part.

"Okay, an' what if I genuinely wanna be yer friend?" Atsumu raises his eyebrows. He watches as Kiyoomi's entire face scrunches in on itself, a reflection of the disbelief that accompanies Atsumu's statement. "Wouldja at least gimme a chance?"

A smile crinkles at the corners of dark eyes, entangling long lashes in a way that screams _'look at me, I'm beautiful.'_ Atsumu fists his hands around his chopsticks to restrain himself from reaching across the table and pulling down his mask to see what lies underneath - if the smile is that pretty with just the eyes, what must the actual thing look like? He doesn't do that, but it's tempting. He'd probably go blind anyway. 

"No," Kiyoomi says, smile still intact behind his mask. 

"So basically I just can't win?" 

"Look, you chose the wrong person to focus on. I'm not here to make friends and become buddies," Kiyoomi's glare is back and making its reprise with vigor. He stabs his chopsticks into his rice to emphasize his point. "If you're under some illusion that I am, that's completely on you." 

He leaves it at that, letting the silence hang heavy in the air. Atsumu takes the moment to ponder, eyes scrutinizing every dip and peak of his expression. Not a hint of dishonesty mars it. He supposes he was just looking for ghosts anyhow. 

But Atsumu's not one to give up. Even if what he's searching for is just a myth. 

"So d'ya eat with yer mask on?" He asks, relentlessly annoying even at the best of times. Kiyoomi's expression crumples further if it's possible. 

"I don't."

"Eat?" Atsumu knows he's pushing buttons just for fun now, but he can't _help_ himself, the opportunity is just too tempting. Plus, he's quite enjoying figuring out how many different expressions of disgust one person can possess. Call it research. 

"No, eat with my mask on, idiot." 

"Then why don'tcha take it off?" Atsumu hadn't even intended the conversation to go down this route - it merely blossomed as a side-effect of his immaturity - but he's certainly not going to pass up a chance to see Kiyoomi Sakusa's face. His _full_ face. "I mean, it is lunchtime. Gotta eat ta keep up yer energy." 

"Nice try."

"Omi, ya give me too much credit. I wasn't tryin' fer anythin'." 

"Yeah, I'm sure," the sarcasm in his words is laid on cement-thick as he picks at his rice. Atsumu mentally notes to keep in mind that Kiyoomi isn't so easily manipulated. A challenge to be sure, but Atsumu never backs down from a challenge. "Can you just leave me alone? I'm never going to _want_ to be your friend. Your efforts are being wasted." 

Nice of him to consider Atsumu, but-

"Ya wanna bet?" Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose, eyes folding slightly at the corners, presumably with a sneer - add that to the list of faces he can make.

"Not even a little bit."

Atsumu grins like the cock-sure bastard he is.

"Great, challenge accepted, OmiOmi." 

———

_**Wormhole:** _

_**The user of this quirk can open up rifts in space-time, allowing them to travel anywhere. (Suna)** _

_**Brightburn:** _

_**The user of this quirk can create, control, and manipulate fire. (Osamu)** _


	5. home

_“My name is Kio...are you hungry?”_

_In truth, Koutarou is not hungry. He still accepts her offer of milk and cookies and kicks his legs as he eats. He nibbles at the edge of a chocolate chip, uninterested but trying not to show it._

_“Are they good?” He nods to show his appreciation, blaming his lack of speech on the bite of cookie in his mouth._

_Kio is a good baker, that’s the first thing he learns about her._

_The second thing is that she’s good at cleaning, likes it, even._

_Her house is simple but clean. Hardwood floors glisten, tatami mats look freshly washed. He wonders absently if she prepared for his arrival... And if so, why._

_He’s not a particularly special guest, just another kid passing through, he’s sure. Unsurprisingly, he keeps quiet about that fact. Koutarou is a quiet kid. Didn’t used to be. Now he is._

_His therapist, Jenny from Edinburgh, says that’s normal, that it’s okay if he doesn’t want to talk because no one will make him._

_“What’s your name?” The question must be pleasantries, because she wouldn’t have taken him if she didn’t know his name beforehand._

_It’s standard that the caretaker know everything about their surrogate child there is to know before they take them into their home. Koutarou’s gone through it a thousand times before. It’s because of the troublemakers like Daichi Komura, a kid at his old home._

_Koutarou is not a troublemaker._

_“Bokuto,” he says simply, tagging himself with his family name, the only keepsake he has. Kio isn’t satisfied with his answer. She smiles and leans forward._

_“Is that your given name?” She asks him gently. She already knows the answer. Her question is utterly pointless. But Koutarou will acknowledge the compassion in it._

_He takes a moment to consider. Yes, he decides, yes it is._

_“Yeah.”_

_“Okay Bokuto,” she was clearly planning on a child named Koutarou, not this Bokuto kid. But she cares for him all the same._

_That night she lets him take a bath all by himself, because he insists that at the ripe old age of six, he knows exactly what all the soaps are and how to keep them out of his eyes. This is a complete lie._

_He gets what he thinks is hair soap in his eye three times, edging closer to sobbing with each successive instance. He sniffles his way through it, determined to grow up fast like his mother always said he did._

_He notices too, that night, that Kio’s bathroom is all white. The only splotches of color are from a plant on the shelf above the toilet, and a yellow duck that sits a ways away from his rapidly cooling bathwater._

_Both objects are out of place. He doesn’t process the implications of that fact until eight years later when his new home has no duck._

_For the current moment, he feels content. Not happy or chatty or ready to dive into his old persona head first, just content as every six-year-old with a rubber duck should feel._

_When he dries off and steps out of the bath, he feels triumphant; his first bath time conquered of many more to come in the six years ahead of him with Kio._

-

“You’re encouraging bad behavior, Kuro,” Daichi scolds on their way from Hero Training to World Studies. “You can’t keep this up forever.”

“Oh let him have his fun! He’s a kid! He should be living life to the fullest. Plus, you only need a passing grade in history to graduate,” Kuroo talks like he’s an aged Wiseman when really he might be the least mature of their entire friend group, though he and Koutarou make a close match.

“Yes, but how is he going to get a passing grade if he always misses part of class?” Kiyoko isn’t one to butt in with her opinion. This time she does though, because she cares more than she says in words.

“Easy! I’ll give him my notes, and he can study them. It’s not like he really pays attention anyway, and it’s only ten or fifteen minutes.”

“I’m standing right here,” Koutarou feels the need to remind them, since they’ve obviously forgotten.

“Yes, but where better to discuss your future with that dreamy-eyed first year than with you privy to the conversation, ey?” Oikawa _is_ one to butt in with his own opinion. In fact, it’s probably his most reliable trait.

Koutarou’s cheeks burn hot under the midday sun, the scrutiny of a thousand possible gazes piercing his weak wall of indifference - he never was great at hiding how he felt.

He would deny such an accusation, but Akaashi does have very pretty eyes. And very pretty lips, and a very pretty face in general that Koutarou couldn’t manage to stop staring at of thinking about, even when Kinata-sensei rambled on about World War II.

“It’s not...like that,” he insists even though Oikawa is always spot on.

“It absolutely is like that,” Kuro decides for him. “Which is why you’re going to talk to him and sit with him while he eats lunch and you’re going to build on these initial feelings until they eventually blossom into a love story for the ages-“

Daichi snorts.

“Great, and while he’s at it he’ll throw away his future for a guy you don’t even know the sexuality of, solid plan.”

“Oh my god Daichi. Can you just act like a high schooler instead of an old man for once?” Oikawa, always the affectionate friend, drapes himself across Daichi’s broad shoulders, allowing the poor second year to drag him partway down the dirt path that leads to the building,

“I’m acting responsible and mature about my friend’s career. If he’s not going to take it seriously, then he shouldn’t pursue it in the first place, is all I’m saying.”

Daichi is drier than people give him credit for, only brandishing his bland nice guy act in front of strangers and vague acquaintances. Koutarou decided a long time ago that he likes the real Daichi Sawamura most, even for all his sharp edges.

“Dai, it’s own class. Let the man talk to his true love,” Kuroo pats him on the back like he’s doing him a favor. 

“Okay, I barely even know him. It’s not like we’re miraculously in love,” Koutarou has always liked the concept of love at first sight, but many past experiences have disproved his hope of its validity. “He’s not even-“

The entire group of them halts in their tracks as the first-year in question comes into view, this time sitting not in the halls of the actual building, but instead on the steps of it as if to further remove himself from the school altogether.

Ankles crossed, Akaashi holds a bowl of plain rice in one hand while he balances a textbook in his lap, neck craned down to read it. Even sitting alone on the steps of the school - something that should make him look pathetically friendless - he’s pretty.

Dark curls frame a face so beautifully proportioned it could be chiseled from marble, bright, midday sunlight catches on high cheekbones. You would stare too. Koutarou isn’t doing anything out of the ordinary.

Kuroo’s head turns so slowly to Koutarou one might think it comical.

“There’s your boyfriend,” he says, voice molasses thick with suggestion.

A shove planted squarely to Kuroo’s back has the group moving forward again like one single-celled blob, all interconnected. Koutarou cranes his neck to search for the source of the sudden intrusion.

“Oh my god,” Iwaizumi is shouldering his way through them in the next moment sending them each a customized look of disgust intermingled with disappointment. “Are you seriously just staring at the first-year like a bunch of fucking stalkers? What is wrong with you?”

“We stopped for like _two seconds_ you drama queen,” Kuroo laments to him most unwisely.

When faced with an insult, Iwaizumi Hajime only has two reactions: one, he completely ignores you and moves on with his life as though you never existed in the first place. Two, extreme violence. You better thank your lucky stars if it ends up being the first.

Today they get lucky, breathing a collective sigh of relief as Iwaizumi stalks past them to the entrance of the school, sparing Akaashi a cursory nod of acknowledgment before pushing his way into the school.

"I'd give you a solid fifteen minutes before Kinata-Sensei comes looking for you," Kuroo says, completely disregarding Iwaizumi's input and patting Koutarou on the back. "And try not to look so scared. You're going for 'I'm hot and I have a great personality' not 'Please date my pathetic loser-ass'." 

Koutarou shakes his head. Flicking his eyes to Daichi, he silently begs for help. In return he receives a shrug of surrender that communicates, 'I tried'. 

"But dude I don't even know if he's-" 

Kuroo completely ignores his protests, turning around to throw him double finger-guns as his friends abandon him like the assholes they are. 

"-gay." _Yeah, with your luck he's straighter than a ruler,_ Koutarou's subconscious chirps merrily at him.

The sigh he heaves falls completely unnoticed as Kuroo bids a "hello again" to Akaashi. The first-year acknowledges his greeting with a shallow nod of his head before promptly returning to studying - far more interesting than talking to living beings. Great, this is going to be a riot. 

Kuroo turns around when he reaches the door, cupping his hands around his face and mouthing the word 'hot' to Koutarou. The golden-eyed second-year narrowly resists the urge to scream "fuck you, Kuro" as he slumps forward. Koutarou loves his best friend, he really does. And Kuroo, more often than not, is actually a source of stability in his life. But there are times when he wishes the boy would disappear into thin air. Just for a little bit though. 

With a reluctant sigh, Koutarou walks up to the school. 

"Hello, Bokuto-San," Koutarou's head spins around so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. He shouldn't be surprised that Akaashi remembered his name. It's not really that hard a name to keep in one's head. But it still makes butterflies tickle at his lungs.

He can't help the grin that breaks out on his face - Akaashi, on the other hand, doesn't smile at all. He's really setting himself up for heartbreak, but then again he never claimed to have the best judgment. 

"Hey, Akaashi!" Despite wanting to stick it to Kuroo, Koutarou flops himself down beside the first-year on the steps of the school. "Watcha studying?" 

He leans over to the side just slightly to scan the textbook Akaashi is working off of. The moment his eyes connect with the familiar equations of entry-level calculus (considered the bare minimum for incoming U.A students), Koutarou wrinkles his nose. Unpleasant memories of late-night study sessions with Kuroo nearly hitting his head against the wall because his owl-headed friend just _wasn't getting it_ come to mind first and foremost.

"I'm not studying actually," Akaashi says. Koutarou frowns. 

"Then...why the calculus book?"

"A couple of my classmates asked me to tutor them. I'm grading their homework," Koutarou gives him a strange look at that, but he's pretty sure Akaashi doesn't even see it, too absorbed in whatever he's doing to notice. 

"Shouldn't the teacher be doing that?" 

"It's not school homework," Akaashi clarifies unhelpfully. Look, Koutarou is a hundred different kinds of stupid, the most prominent being academically. "I gave them some worksheets to complete so I could see how much help they need." 

He makes a sound of understanding from the back of his throat, not that he really does. 

"Ohh, I see. And how are they doing?" He asks just because he likes listening to Akaashi talk - that's not weird, right? Akaashi shows not a single modicum of emotion as he brutalizes his classmates. 

"Horribly." 

Koutarou can't help the short bark of a giggle he lets out. Akaashi looks startled by the noise as his head whips to the side, eyes wide. He would have the mind to be embarrassed, but the blush that decorates Akaashi's high cheekbones fades any unpleasant feelings out as he says,

"So you're really smart then?"

He knows it's just because of the compliment, but Koutarou likes the pretty pink that fans out under equally pretty eyes, a direct result of his words. Akaashi flicks those eyes back to not-his homework and takes to fiddling with his fingers over the sleek pages of his textbook. 

"Not really," the way Akaashi's full bottom lip gets pulled between his teeth doesn't escape the second-year. "I just study a lot." 

"That's kinda what smart is." 

"By that logic, every high schooler is smart." 

"I guess I'm the counterexample then," he jokes - self-depreciation isn't a tactic he likes using often because most of the time it's obscenely _true._ But when it comes to academics, everyone knows Koutarou Bokuto is no shining star. In fact, he's more like a piece of space trash floating away into the endless abyss of time. 

"Exactly. Your logic is faulty," Akaashi states absently as he retrieves the pencil that had been lying in the crease of his book. He stares at the page he's on for a couple of seconds before he's suddenly sitting up ruler-straight and looking at Koutarou with utter panic written across his face. "I-I'm so sorry, that was incredibly rude- I didn't mean to say that you were- That's not- Oh my god." 

Koutarou would be ashamed to admit how endearing he finds the way Akaashi hides his face in his hands. A red blush infects the tips of his ears and the highs of his cheekbones, he flops his entire body in half as if to hide his embarrassment, the pencil rolls off to the side, long forgotten. Adorable. 

"Hey don't worry about it! I wasn't kidding anyway. I'm seriously like, the dumbest ever," Koutarou shrugs honestly, unable to contain his jovial smile. "Everyone knows it, so I've stopped caring all that much."

"Are you really bragging to me about how unintelligent you are?" Akaashi looks up at him, elbows still supporting his weight on the textbook. He purses his lips to flatten the small bud of a smile on his lips - Koutarou wishes he wouldn't. He would be absolutely content to go blind if Akaashi smiled at him genuinely, he knows he would. 

"Well, I could brag to you about all my amazing qualities but then you might fall in love with me," Koutarou shrugs before he realizes the implication of what he's saying. Akaashi doesn't seem to pick up on it, or if he does, he's not bothered in the slightest. 

"I'd be willing to take that bet," he says softly. 

Koutarou can't help the way his heart takes a nose-dive off the edge of the Grand Canyon at that. The butterflies in his stomach overwhelm, tickling incessantly. He’s forced to inhale two lung-fulls of fresh air just to push his mind back to normalcy. 

He opens his mouth to say something - he's not exactly sure what because he never really plans what words should come out of his mouth - but is immediately cut off by his own brain (for once) providing him a reminder that he is about to be _colossally_ fucked. 

"Fuck," is what comes out of his mouth. Akaashi gives him a strange look of questioning. "I'm about to be really really late." Koutarou scrambles to feet - Kuroo is going to get hell served to him on a silver platter for this. "I'm so sorry- I really liked talking to you but Kuroo- and- I just gotta go-"

"Bokuto-San," Akaashi's voice stops him in the process of tripping up the stairs. He should just start sprinting away, but even just a few minutes of being in Akaashi's presence has trained his brain far more effectively than it should. Koutarou's head whips around to regard the first-year, ready to patiently wait for whatever he has to say even if it takes the rest of the hour and he misses his class. "I liked talking to you too." 

Koutarou feels his face burn hotter than the midday sun. 

The first time Akaashi said that to him two weeks ago, there was a hesitation. Insincerity had creased his tone, folded it at the edges. 

There's no pause this time. Just truth and the slight upturn of full lips. 

-

_”Why do you hang out with me?”_

_At eight years old, poking lightly at centipedes with sticks still counts as an amusing activity. Kuroo wrinkles his nose at the question, seemingly perturbed by the notion that he wouldn’t be hanging out with Koutarou._

_“Waddayou mean?” Kuroo pokes lightly at his centipede’s butt. Koutarou watches how it wiggles like it’s made of rubber._

_“Why do you hang out with me when you could hang out with other people?” Koutarou asks, watching his own centipede - Kiko - sniff around in the dirt uselessly. Do centipedes smell? Koutarou has no clue but hasn’t gathered the will to find one._

_”Well...who else would play centipedes with me?” Kuroo shrugs like it’s obvious. “Other kids think centipedes are gross.”_

_Koutarou pouts with disbelief. Centipedes, gross? In what world? Centipedes are awesome!_

_So he clarifies._

_“I mean like...other people don’t like me, but they like you,” Koutarou articulates as best he can - which isn’t great, but he tries. Kids don’t hang out with him, not like Kuroo does, anyway._

_“That’s just ‘cause you don’t talk.”_   
  


_Koutarou huffs. Of course he talks!_

_“I talk to you!”_

_“Yeah, and I like you,” Kuroo’s centipede scurries off into the forest behind Kuroo’s house, leaving the poor kid in dismay. Oh well, they’ll just have to both take care of Kiko. “If you talked to other kids, they’d like you too.”_

_Koutarou ponders this idea, wonders what exactly he would say to anyone other than Kuroo. He’s not a skilled conversationalist, his only asset being that, once he latched into a subject, he never stops talking about it._

_But really, what would be the point of having more friends? Does he want more friends? He and Kuroo can just play centipedes forever. He doesn’t need other people to be happy. Right?_

_Suddenly, as he stares at Kiko wiggling her - not that Koutarou actually knows the gender identity of the centipede he found by chance - sectional body, Koutarou wonders why he even asked in the first place._

_“Maybe...”_

_“You’re not gonna talk to other kids, are you?” Kuroo calls his bluff._

_”I don’t need any other friends,” Koutarou decides then._

\- 

“And then I told him he might fall in love with me,” Koutarou laments as Oikawa yanks on his hair - in another world, the boy could be a quality hair dresser. “He probably thinks I’m trying to jump his bones.” 

“Well, aren’t you?” Oikawa lives an infuriatingly perfect life - good looks, powerful quirk, stable relationship. So of course he wouldn’t get it. 

Koutarou doesn’t deign to lend validity to such an accusation, instead responding with a long-suffering groan. Oikawa ignores him, braiding bi-shaded strands with practiced diligence. 

“Bo, relax, this is what we in the business call, ‘flirting’, you might have heard of it,” Kuroo is using his differential equations textbook as a pillow, folding his forearms across marked pages. “I know you did it unintentionally this time, but you gotta put in an effort.” 

“I wasn’t trying to flirt with him, Kuro!” He really wasn’t. Even if he was under some illusion that their inane conversation would lead to a relationship, Koutarou knows better than anyone that romance builds slowly. That’s like, a core tenet of love - feelings + time. “Plus...he wouldn’t even like me-“ 

“Oh my god, stop it,” Oikawa gives a particularly rough yank on his hair to shut him up. “You’re a beautiful beautiful man with a pretty personality. Dreamy-Eyes-Kun would be lucky to have you-“ 

“You’re missing the point!”

”No Bo, you’re missing the point,” Kuroo abruptly sits up, snapping his book closed. “What did he say to you after you unintentionally pulled a quality seduction?” 

Koutarou pouts, sensing the storm that is Kuroo’s romantic advice fast approaching. 

“Well I said ‘I could keep bragging about myself but you might fall in love with me’ or something and he goes ‘I’d be willing to take that bet-“ 

“Oh my _god_ , you’re so _dense_!” Oikawa emphasizes his point with a sharp, frustrated tug on his hair. “He was obviously flirting back at you!” 

“He’s literally saying he’s willing to bet he _won’t_ fall in love with me!” Koutarou shakes his head, eliciting a distressed whine as he shakes loose one of Oikawa’s braids. “Why are we even talking about this? It’s not going to happen! He’s too smart for me and we’re a year apart!” 

“We’re talking about this because, in the past two years, you’ve had romantic feelings for two people and one of them was me,” Oikawa grimaces behind him. 

“It was for like, _two weeks_ , are we seriously still talking about this?!”

”We will always be talking about this,” Oikawa gives up on making him beautiful then, springing from his bed to his desk chair with the grace of a cat. “My point is that it’s a big deal. Like, you should be a mad, horny-ass teenager right now popping a boner every time you see a hot guy on the street. But instead you’re pining like a middle schooler. It’s fucking adorable.” 

Koutarou folds himself in half to avoid the embarrassment that burns beneath the surface of his skin. 

“I’m not pining! I’ve known him for two weeks! We’ve only talked twice!” 

“You really think that means anything? Kuroo was in love with Dai for three months without ever even speaking to him.” 

“That wasn’t love. It was intense hormonal attraction,” Kuroo interjects. 

“Do you have to make it sound gross?” Oikawa sneers, throwing a stress ball at his head. “I’m trying to comfort our friend here.” 

“You’re making it worse,” Kuroo’s snort is incredulous. He shuffles over to Koutarou, bending his body sideways at what cannot possibly be a comfortable angle, flopping his head to Koutarou’s shoulder. “Look Bo, feelings manifest differently at different rates. It’s obvious that you like him. You deserve to give yourself a chance. And look, if he turns you down, me and ToTo will be here to tear him a new one.” 

“Kuroo Tetsuro I swear to god I told you to stop fucking calling me that,” Oikawa spins around so fast in his chair he almost sends himself flying. “Iwa-Chan keeps making fun of me for it.” 

“It’s not my fault you chose to date the _one person_ who can make fun of you and tune out your whining,” Kuroo snarks. “Plus, this ain’t about you. This is about Bo.” 

Koutarou groans for the nth time that night, tuning out of the conversation as it takes a turn toward substance-less bickering. It’s almost a routine now, the devolution of actual conversation topics into mindless back and forth, but Koutarou supposes that’s what he gets for putting Kuroo and Oikawa in the same room together. 

Not that he minds deep down. The normalcy wraps him in its comfort.

The sound of home plays through jests and teases that occasionally decay into slap wars and purple-nurples. These guys will be the death of him. 

———

_**Infallible:** _

**_The user of this quirk gains greatly enhanced strength as well as impermeability of the skin. (Bokuto)_ **

**_Shaman:_ **

**_The user of this quirk can transfer the injuries or ailments of others to themselves. To make up for taking greatly increased damage, the user’s body heals itself at fifty times the rate of a normal person’s. (Kuroo)_ **

**_Aquarius:_ **

**_The user of this quirk can control and manipulate water. The larger the quantity of water, the less control the user has over it. (Oikawa)_ **


End file.
